A Long Time Coming
by islesofskye
Summary: Molly Hooper has a secret admirer that has been sending her elaborate gifts in the days leading up to Valentine's day. But spoiler alert - it's not Sherlock. And Sherlock is very bothered by this. Especially when he can't shake the feeling that this admirer is a fake. For Milkforthesouffles, as a part of the Sherlolly Valentine Fic-a-thon.


**xxxxx**

**Monday. February 10th.**

**xxxxx**

"Is that an early Valentine? Who's it from?"

"I don't know, John. Meena said it came for me earlier today."

"There's no note?"

With a concentrated frown, Molly gently ruffled the bouquet. There, tucked between the leaves of a pink tipped orchid, was a small white card. She shifted the flowers aside, careful to not tear their delicate petals. However, reading the flowing script on the card gave no indication as to the identity of the sender.

John peered over her shoulder and frowned.

"This is weird," she muttered. "Sherlock, take a look at this."

The detective had been strangely quiet since Molly walked into the lab with a bemused expression on her face. He had given her and the giant bouquet a passing glance before returning his attention to the series of dilutions he was making from a sample Lestrade had sent over. It was from the latest crime scene of what appeared to be a string of very strange thefts in Brighton – the Brighton burglaries, the tabloids were calling it. He had been aggressively silent during Molly and John's exchange and didn't even look up when she held the card out to him.

"Sherlock, really," Molly pressed. She opened the card. "Look."

In elaborate calligraphy, in the middle of the white card and bordered by a silver inlay were the words:

_Darling,_

_I do adore you, so_

_Deliberately –_

The phrasing of the words seemed a little off, Sherlock would admit. And he could tell that the quality of the paper – without actually touching it – seemed to be expensive and heavy. The words were written manually with a fountain pen, and the capital letters beginning each line was adorned with a flourish. Though it was not written by a hand that he recognized. From the indentation the pen nib left on the paper, the writer was a male, early to mid thirties, and very practiced in calligraphy. The strangest thing was the out of place smiley face in the corner of the card, written with a ballpoint pen that was running low on ink. Clearly –

"Someone is going to extensive lengths to make you think you've got a secret admirer, Molly." He looked to her with a sardonic smile.

"Excuse me?" The furrows in the middle of her eyebrows deepened.

"Obviously. Pink cymbidium orchids? Very expensive. At least £10 a stem, and there's at least twenty of them. But you're more partial to white lilies – even John knows that, but this secret admirer didn't? He doesn't know you very well. Also he paid a professional calligrapher to write the card, which lacks a personal touch – tokens of affection generally have some sort of sentimentality to them. All this mysterious sender did was spend a handsome amount of money. And if you look at how –"

"I think that spending a lot of money on someone constitutes actually liking them," John interrupted pointedly from across the room.

"Hardly – people waste money on others all the time. You've spent hundreds of pounds on your past girlfriends, and you didn't really, _really_ like any of them – "

"Oi! I'm married now! You don't talk about that stuff!"

"But that's not the weird part, it's how it smells. Smell it," Molly urged, pushing the card closer to Sherlock.

Sherlock looked from Molly to John, who now had his arms crossed over his chest in annoyance. He was only telling him the truth, honestly. He lifted the card up to his nose and sniffed. Chlorine. Curious.

"Smells like a pool, like the chlorine stuff they use to kill the bacteria. Right?"

"Yes," Sherlock nodded slowly. This was strange indeed. "Still a fake admirer."

It was Molly's turn to huff in annoyance.

"I don't understand why you can't just accept that there are nice people who do nice things," Molly said archly. Scooping the flowers into her arms, she made for the door. "I'm going home. Clean up after you've finished, will you?"

Perplexed by her reaction, Sherlock shrugged and added two more drops of phenolphthalein to the test tube. John curiously watched the detective's concentration as the sound of Molly's steps disappeared. He started to chuckle.

"What?"

"Nothing, Sherlock. Nothing."

"It's not nothing or you wouldn't be laughing like that - " he lifted his head. "Or looking at me like that. What."

"You're a funny man, you know that?" He lowered himself onto a nearby chair. "Quite like the rest of us in many ways."

"John I don't appreciate you being so cryptic."

He leaned forward, pointing an accusatory finger.

"You. Are jealous."

"No I'm not – "

"No? But you know of _whom_ I'm talking about."

" I – what? No."

"You're jealous that Molly's got a secret Valentine and its not you."

"Shut up John."

**xxxxx**

**Tuesday. February 11th.**

**xxxxx**

By the end of her rounds the next day, Molly found that Sherlock did not do what she told him to. Amongst other things, the volumetric flasks and micropipettes he had used were still strewn across the tabletop. She had to remind herself that Sherlock rarely did as she asked. _Typical. Thought I'd get to leave early today too._ She set to work, methodically putting things away and rinsing out the glassware, all the while, quietly singing to herself to break the silence.

In the middle of a particularly passionate rendition of Michael Jackson's Billie Jean, her hands wrist deep in soapy water, the lab door swung swiftly open and Molly jumped.

"Ah, excellent. Just the person I was looking for," Sherlock greeted her. "I need you to come with me to interview a couple for a case."

Molly lifted the soapy beaker.

"Yes, after you've finished of course."

xxx

An hour and a half later, a couple in their early 50's cautiously walked into 221B. Hands were shaken, names were taken ("Violet and Clay Ealey, pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes.") and their story was recounted. Mr. and Mrs. Ealey were looking for their teenage daughter, who had been missing for the past 24 hours. She had been distant and snippy with them as of late, and had a tendency to come home in the early hours of the morning after spending the day with her friends – who, by Mr. Ealey's description were the "unsavory sort of chavs."

"Why didn't you go to the police first?" Molly asked. It was strange that they would call on the consulting detective before the proper authorities when their only child was nowhere to be found.

"Because they expect her to be involved with some illegal activity – drugs, perhaps?" Sherlock pointed at Mrs. Ealey with his interlocked hands. "You found something in her room, correct?"

"Why – how did you know?"

"I didn't. But you keep looking at your purse, as if to make sure that something is there – or still there. What is it?"

Mrs. Ealey shifted uncomfortably in her seat, exchanging a look with Mr. Ealey, who nodded just as uncomfortably. She reached into the middle pocket of her small black purse and pulled out a sealed baggie of pills and cannabis as well as an envelope, fat with papers. Leaning over, she passed the items to Molly, who inspected the pills carefully. Yes, they were recreational drugs.

"It's not just the drugs, Ms. Hooper. It's the letters. They seem absolutely nonsensical, and yet she had hidden them along with the pills. We don't know what to make of it."

Sherlock took the envelope from Molly's lap, pulling out papers. There was a paragraph of random words on each sheet. He sifted through the pages then lowered them dramatically.

Looking from Molly to the couple sitting on the couch, he announced, "Your daughter is at her boyfriend's house and they're going to elope."

Mr. and Mrs. Ealey began talking at the same time and at the same ear splitting decibel.

"Boyfriend? She hasn't got a boyfriend! And even if she did, she is much too young to be thinking about _marriage_."

"I don't appreciate empty statements, Mr. Holmes. You cannot make up facts to suit your own fancy. This is our daughter!"

Taken aback, Molly slowly swiveled her head towards Sherlock, who had a sly grin creeping upon his face. He shook the letters out, gesturing to the words on the paper like a teacher about to impart some worldly wisdom.

"It's a null cipher," he said calmly. "Take the first letter of each word and you'll get the real message. This one says 'Genna, I love you and miss you. My heart beats in anticipation of when I shall next see you –' blah, blah, the rest goes on and on."

Sherlock stood up, refastening the buttons on his suit.

"You can find her at 47 Rice Burough Lane in Edmonton – the last letter gives the address. It's her boyfriend's house. They won't elope until tomorrow – Wednesday morning. Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Ealey," he gestured to the door with an open palm.

The couple stood, fazed and flustered – if their confused expressions were enough to go by – and thanked the detective. When they had left, Sherlock pulled his coat on.

"Come, Molly," he said as he tied a scarf around his neck.

"Where to?" Molly gathered her things into her purse, then picked up her own coat from the chair's back, slipping her arms through it.

"Dinner – haven't eaten all day," Sherlock replied, sliding on gloves and heading down the stairs.

It took a moment for Molly to register what was happening. She followed after him hastily.

"I – um, I think I should be heading home. Toby – my cat I mean – he hasn't, I mean, I have to refill his bowl."

"Perfect, there's a good Indian place about two blocks from your building," Sherlock replied on beat. "We can stop by your flat, feed the cat, then feed ourselves."

xxx

The building that Molly lived in was a good distance outside of the city's center. It had the feel of suburbia but the closeness of a metropolitan center that was easily within tube distance. Her neighbors, Ann Keats and her eight-year-old son Oliver, greeted her in the stairwell as they headed up.

"Molly, hello! There's a basket of chocolates on your doorstep that came this morning. I had to stop Oliver here from taking one – the cheeky child," she ruffled her son's hair. Catching Sherlock's eye, she added, "Who's this?"

"Oh, right, sorry Ann, this is my friend Sherlock. Sherlock, this is my neighbor Ann," Molly introduced.

Ann grinned conspiratorially to Sherlock and patting his arm gently.

"Ahh, you must be the gentleman caller who sent the chocolates. Come to see her reaction? I'm so sorry to have spoiled it for you, dear."

"It wasn't – I didn't –"

"Oh no! No – Sherlock's just a friend," Molly interrupted. "We sort of work together."

Ann's grin didn't falter. She merely nodded her head, announced that she and Oliver should best be off, and that she hoped to see Sherlock around again soon.

From the opposite end of the hallway, a large wicker basket, large enough to fit a toddler, could be seen sitting idly in front of Molly's door. It was comically out of place, with an oversized pink bow adorning the top, and white ribbons streaming round the basket's handle.

Sherlock regarded her as she inspected the basket, his nose wrinkling in confusion. "Why are you giggling like that?"

"It's – pretty. Really pretty," She was going to say that it was nice to be wanted, but caught herself. Molly opened her front door and shifted the basket inside. "This is quite heavy."

With Sherlock closing the door behind them, Molly knelt by the basket. Toby had slunk out from his hiding place under the couch and was nuzzling her leg affectionately, eyeing the basket of chocolates with equal suspicion and curiosity. He pawed at the card Molly held in her hand and when Molly wouldn't give it to him, he stalked away, tail in the air.

Sherlock stood behind her. 'What does it say?"

It was of the same material as the last card, the same ornate calligraphy, even a similar smiley face in the corner, but the words were from a children's song:

_You are my sunshine, my_

_Only sunshine_

_U make me happy –_

He sniffed it, curious to see if it would have the same scent. It did.

"Would you like a chocolate, Sherlock?" Molly had opened the bundle and was sorting through the sweets. It was heaven – all different luxury chocolates, promising decadent flavors.

He bristled, standing straighter. "No, thank you. I should think that your admirer intended for you to be the sole recipient of these gifts."

Molly's eyebrows shot up.

"Molly, leave the candy. It will be here when you get back. Feed your cat and let's go. I'm starved."

Chuckling at his impatience, Molly made for the cupboard with Toby's food. "Yes, your highness."

**xxxxx**

**Wednesday. February 12th.**

**xxxxx**

Midway through her lunch of penne alfredo in the busy Bart's canteen, Molly's phone vibrated violently on the table. The screen announced that it was a blocked number, and yet despite her first instinct, she answered it.

"Molly, this is Mycroft Holmes."

Of course he would have a blocked number.

"Mr. Holmes, yes, hello," She started. "Sherlock's not with me right now – "

"Yes, I am aware – " He would be. "I am calling to speak to you. Could you please head towards the main hospital entrance?"

She wistfully looked down at her pasta.

"Yes, of course," Molly replied. "One moment."

Setting her tray away, she exited the double doors and briskly walked to the hospital's lobby.

"Outside, you will see a black car with tinted windows. Please get in," Mycroft said.

"I can't just leave, Mr. Holmes," Molly protested. "I have work and –"

From the other end of the line, Mycroft tutted. "I've arranged for someone to cover your shift, don't worry Molly."

xxx

The car ride with Anthea was nearly silent. Molly had met her once before, the day after Sherlock's rooftop incident, along the way to Mycroft's house. She suspected that she was being taken to the same place. But to discuss what? The last time, there were important things to be considered – logistics, the official story, etc. But today was an ordinary Wednesday. Molly wracked her brain for strange events, but nothing out of sorts had happened recently.

When the car slid to a halt, Anthea led her into an ivory building. Her heels clicked on the rich wooden floors, which seemed to sparkle with the soft sunlight filtering in through the large windows. Well-dressed men – _old men_, Molly noted – reclined in comfortable armchairs, reading newspapers in the first room they passed by. It was a place of quiet, Molly gathered.

Mycroft and Sherlock appeared from the room adjacent. Mycroft met them with a polite smile and a nod of his head, while Sherlock stood silently, a deducing stare in his eyes.

"Sherlock! I didn't know you'd be here."

Molly's words were met with an obnoxious "Shh!" from one of the older gentlemen.

With a finger to his lips, Mycroft gestured for her to follow them.

"My apologies for earlier, Molly. We have a rule of silence here in the Diogenes Club. Politicians and heads of states tend to gather here – wouldn't want to start another world war by a misplaced tea tray, now would we. Please, have a seat," he said as he slid into the high backed leather chair behind the desk. "Now. This is yours."

An ornate wooden box, the size of a paperback book, lay on the tabletop. It looked like an antique, decorated with what appeared to be mother-of-pearl and gold filigree on the top. The clasp on the front of the box looked old, its silvery metal scratched from repeated use.

Molly turned to Sherlock. "I don't understand. I've never seen this box before."

Mycroft leaned on his elbows, his hands steepling beneath his chin. "It was delivered here by post, addressed to you. We haven't opened it, but I am curious as to the contents. If you wouldn't mind?"

Molly gingerly unfastened the clasp. The hinges easily gave way, making the box easier to open than she expected.

"This can't be for me," she breathed.

Resting demurely on the black velvet that lined the inside of the box was an iridescently pink and impossibly clear teardrop diamond pendant the size of her fingernail. Two smaller diamonds, the most flawless river white that she had ever seen, adorned the bail, which hung the pendant to the platinum chain.

Sherlock grabbed the white card that Molly had not initially noticed, tucked against the lining on the top half of the box. The same paper, script – everything.

_Molly, love_

_I cannot wait to_

_See you_

_Soon –_

"I don't understand," Molly said softly. "Who is this person? Are these real diamonds?"

"Yes – the clarity and shine is unparalleled," Mycroft replied. "The jewelry alone would have cost a pretty penny, nevermind the box."

Sherlock placed the card on the table and sunk into the chair next to Molly. "What I don't understand is why send it to Mycroft? Why not send it directly to your flat? Or to Bart's, if they needed to make sure you would get it. Have you flirted with any powerful men lately, Molly?"

Blushing at the insinuation, she crossed her arms. "No, of course not! I barely go out and about as it is. You and your cases keep me in the lab most days."

"Well you must have met somebody of importance. Normal people would not be able to afford to throw away such luxuries on a little game."

"Why do you insist that it's not a real person? Honestly, does it baffle you to think that someone could find me attractive?"

"I never said that you weren't attractive. You are moderately attractive. I'm sure many men would find the combination of your– "

Mycroft clapped his hands, interrupting his brother before he said something unwittingly vile.

"If you two don't mind, I must be off. Anthea will wait for you in the car outside and ensure you arrive where you need to go," he announced with a Cheshire cat smile. Closing the box, he picked it up and handed it to Molly. "Don't forget your trinket, Molly."

And with a nod of his head, Mycroft Holmes bade his leave.

**xxxxx**

**Thursday. February 13th.**

**xxxxx**

Sherlock Holmes was bored.

He had been awoken abruptly at 6 am by the sound of a car alarm outside and was unable to return to sleep. Not that he needed it, mind, but he had nothing planned for the day. Currently, he was standing in front of the fireplace, throwing knives against the opposite wall. As of late, he had been practicing his knife throwing. Why, you ask? Why not, he would answer. He had fashioned target rings out of pictures his old clients had given him. So far, he had made 3 in the dead center. Not good enough.

With a friendly shout of his name, Mrs. Hudson clambered up the stairs and into his living room. She set down the tea tray, which had been balanced atop a wide rectangular package.

Taking the knives out of his hand carefully, she replaced them with the parcel. "This came in the post for you, dear. Thought I heard you moving about up here." She glanced at the knives in the walls. "Don't you think you ought to find a new hobby?"

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson, but knife throwing is a learned skill."

She squeezed his arm affectionately and left him to his own devices.

Sherlock lifted the box and shook it. It was quite light, its contents shifting about in a way that suggested it was clothing of some sort. Using one of the knives to tear open the cardboard box, he found another box, made of stiff pink paper, with a white bow. It was the size and shape of a gift box from a clothing store. An envelope addressed to him lay on top of it.

"_Please give this to Dr. Hooper_," Sherlock read the printed words out loud. Times new roman. 12 point font. Nothing significant. Something burst somewhere in the back of his mind and he tore open the ribbon that kept the box closed.

His suspicions were correct – it was clothing, though if you could actually clothe a human being with the thin material remained to be seen. He lifted the garment up to better inspect it and immediately regretted the decision. It was women's lingerie. The champagne colored chiffon was exceedingly sheer, with silk ribbons down the back of the strapless corset holding it all together. At its hem hung silk ribbons with clasps – garters. Glancing down, Sherlock noticed the matching thong panties and stockings.

_Rough hands on the curve of her hips, fingers digging into the skin, indents,  
__lips on the skin of Molly's spine,  
__Molly, her rosy mouth slightly parted, back arched and bent over the desk,  
her chestnut hair framing her face,  
__a ruddy colored blush to her cheeks, her soft skin barely hidden by the chiffon –_

No. No. No.

Sherlock banished the unbidden images from his mind, taking a deep breath to regain control of his body.

This has to stop. Whoever was sending all of this has to stop.

He shoved the lingerie back into the box and closed it, tucking it under his arm. Grabbing his coat from the stand, Sherlock stormed to St. Bart's.

xxx

Molly was quietly sipping her afternoon tea as she entered the data for the day's report. She was about to hit save when a familiar voice angrily shouted her name in the hall outside.

Hastening to the door, she collided with Sherlock's solid frame. "What?" She hissed.

He tossed a half opened pink box on her table. "Why are you lying to me?" Sherlock accused, pointing at the object.

Molly's arms rose to her hips of their own accord. "I beg your _pardon_?"

He grasped her shoulders. "You have been seeing somebody and you are lying about it. Why? Who is he?"

Molly pushed his hands off and took a step back.

"Sherlock, I'm not seeing anybody! I don't know what you're talking about."

"_Really?_ So someone you don't know has been sending you gifts every day this week, expensive gifts, very _personal_ gifts."

"I don't understand what you –" Molly looked towards the pink paper box. "Hang on, was that for me? Did you open something that was addressed _to me?"_

Sherlock hunched his shoulders sheepishly, though his voice retained its steely edge. "It was sent to Baker Street."

"Was it addressed to me?"

"It was in another box that had my name on it and – "

"But was it addressed to me?"

Sherlock sighed. "Yes."

A strangled cry of frustration escaped Molly's lips. This man truly drove her up the walls. "What was it?"

He suddenly found the tips of his shoes to be very interesting. They were almost a blue-black in color, hmm, never noticed that before –

"Sherlock," Molly peered up at him. "What was it?"

"Just open it yourself."

"But I want you to tell me," Molly pressed. This reaction of his piqued her curiosity.

He paused, avoiding her eye contact while trying to remain neutral in voice and visage. "Lingerie."

Molly tore open the box, unbelieving. Lo and behold, he was telling the truth. She felt her face grow warm with embarrassment as she held the corset up. No doubt she resembled a cherry tomato now. She moved the clothing aside, spying a familiar white card beneath it.

_My little mouse, our_

_Evening comes so soon, but not soon enough_

Without speaking, Molly passed the card for Sherlock to examine. As expected, it was the same as the previous three in make and smell. He could admire this person, whoever they were, for their commitment to consistency in details.

"Any ideas?" Molly asked quietly.

Sherlock pursed his lips. "Nope."

**xxxxx**

**Friday. February 14th.**

**xxxxx**

In the middle of the afternoon, Sherlock's phone dinged. An incoming email. Normal.

It was from Mr. and Mrs. Ealey , the clients from earlier in the week. They thanked him profusely for his help – they were able to speak sense to their daughter before she ran away with her boyfriend. Boring.

But as Sherlock deleted the email, a puzzle piece shifted into place.

_Darling,_

_I do adore you, so_

_Deliberately –_

_You are my sunshine, my_

_Only sunshine_

_U make me happy –_

_Molly, love_

_I cannot wait to_

_See you_

_Soon –_

_My little mouse, our_

_Evening comes so soon, but not soon enough_

_Darling. I. Deliberately. You. Only. U. Molly. I. See. Soon. My. Evening._

A Null cipher.

**DID YOU MISS ME**

Moriarty.

Sherlock rushed out the door, forgetting his scarf in his haste. Sending a swift text to John, he hailed a taxi to St. Bart's.

xxxxx

John jogged through the hospital halls, winding his way towards the lab, with panic evident in his brow. Sherlock had arrived minutes before and was upending the contents of Molly's desk drawer.

"She's not here?" John said as he burst through the doors.

"No, she's not," Sherlock answered gruffly. "She didn't call in sick, she didn't show up to work and she didn't answer her phone."

John threw his hands up. "Then what are we doing here? We should check her flat!"

With John driving, and Sherlock cursing under his breath every time they stopped at a red light, the journey to Molly's flat took twenty minutes longer than expected. Sprinting up the stairs, and stepping around a teenaged couple holding hands, Sherlock led the way to her flat. He slammed his fist on the door repeatedly, yelling her name.

They could hear Toby yowling inside, but Molly didn't answer.

John pushed Sherlock aside and slammed his shoulder against the door. It gave way, the deadbolt splintering the wooden doorframe.

"Molly!" Sherlock shouted. He threw open the door to her bedroom. The bed was mussed, but there was nobody there. A sickening bile rose in the back of his throat and he wanted to vomit and scream at the same time.

John stared at her coffee table in horror. "Sherlock!"

In the middle, next to a pairing knife, was a red apple. Etched into its flesh were the letters** I O U**. Sherlock picked it up, gripping it tightly in his fist, before throwing it aggressively across the room.

An insistent buzzing in his coat pocket cut through his rage, and he answered the call with a sharp, "What do you want?"

"My, my! Such a temper you've got Sherlock. I really have missed your face," A familiar lilting voice greeted him playfully.

"Moriarty. Where is she," Sherlock demanded. "What have you done to her? I will kill you if you – "

"Kill me? Well, I don't doubt that at all," he countered. "The whole Magnussen business? Oh, how angels have fallen. But the good doctor is safe and sound, right here next to me. We're both enjoying your display of rage, aren't we Molly dear?"

In the background, Sherlock could hear Molly swearing. "Fuck you."

_That's my girl._

"What do you mean you're 'enjoying my display of rage'?" Sherlock gestured for John to search the bookshelves.

"It was too easy to get cameras installed," Moriarty laughed. "But regardless, we should get down to business Sherlock. I did promise all those years ago that if you didn't stop prying, I would have to burn the heart out of you. But you pried and pried and pried until one day, you took it all apart. That wasn't very nice of you. My life's work! Ah, but don't worry. You have three hours to find Molly before I'll have her killed. In the meantime, I'll keep your lady love company."

"Moriarty if you touch her –"

"Yes, I know. You'll kill me. Be more creative Sherlock. Say you'll scalp me, or turn me into fish fodder, or cut my limbs off inch by inch. Make a man want to listen," Moriarty drawled. "Did you want to speak to her? Molly if you ruin the game and tell him where we are, I will have my men shoot them dead on the spot, and that's a promise darling."

Shuffling and static filled the earpiece as Moriarty pressed the phone to Molly. She didn't cry. She didn't scream.

Calmly, and with a note of finality, Molly spoke. "Moriarty, it doesn't matter. It's all null. Tell him everything, everything you explained."

His pitched musical laugh filled Sherlock's ears. The sound dripped acid down his spine.

"Oh, not likely, my dear. Not likely. The fun is in the wait," Moriarty grinned.

"The chlorine – Moriarty, you are sentimental," Sherlock spoke, hoping that he would divulge more information.

"I am, aren't I? The pool, where we first met. I thought it fitting, since this would be our first meeting after our resurrection, if we can call it that," Moriarty laughed gleefully. It was an ominous thing to hear. "Sherlock, it has been delightful speaking with you. Send my love to John and Mary. You have three hours."

The line clicked dead.

Sherlock turned to face John, who had found the two small video cameras hidden in the room, their wires hanging limply.

"What's happening? Where's Molly?" John asked.

"Moriarty took her. He's back. He knows about Molly."

John placed the cameras on the coffee table and frowned, his eyebrows creasing with worry. "Okay, but why are you smiling like that?"

Sherlock smiled wider. "Because Molly is unbelievably smart."

xxx

The drive back into town was going slowly with Friday night traffic, but the fact that they knew where they were headed somewhat eased Sherlock's sense of urgency. Sherlock filled John in on the events of the week. The subsequent gifts, the encoded message in the cards.

" – And Molly, she knew what she was saying! 'It's all _null_. Tell him everything, everything you explained.' She's a genius!" Sherlock exclaimed.

"Sherlock I'm trying to drive and figure out what you're saying at the same time, so for our own safety could you please just explain to me what she meant by that?" John was a touch more panicked, primarily because he didn't know what was going on – the bloody traffic didn't help any, either.

"'Tell him everything, everything you explained'? John, it's a null cipher too. Molly is giving us a null cipher – THE EYE! They're at the London Eye!"

John swore at a meandering pedestrian.

"Could we hurry up? We've an hour and a half left. There's a high probability that Molly's life is in grave danger."

"I bloody well know that Sherlock!"

John pulled over and pulled the key out of the ignition.

"John, this isn't funny."

"We're taking the fucking tube because this fucking traffic is not getting better so don't you dare tell me to hurry when I know that Molly's about to be blown up!" John shouted as he slammed the car door.

Sherlock jogged to keep up with John's brisk pace. "Blown up? What do you mean?"

"Sherlock, there's a fireworks show tonight at the Eye. A Valentine's day fireworks display."

Sherlock's eyes widened with realization.

_"I will burn the heart out of you."_

xxx

"Do you know why I've brought you here?"

Molly sat in stoic silence. Tied and bound with rough, coarse rope to an uncomfortable chair, she would not be tricked into speaking.

"Oh, don't hurt me so. I really did miss you, my little mouse," Moriarty twirled a lock of her hair around his finger, regarding her icy glare fondly. "This was where you broke it off with me. No, don't give me that look – I wasn't in love with you. Please. I was surprised that you would turn me down. And I am a hard man to surprise. But with Sherlock as the competitor – glorious, shining Sherlock – Jim from IT never really stood a chance, did he?"

His face was dangerously close to Molly's cheek. She could feel his breath as he spoke and it made her stomach turn. But still, she would not speak. Not for him. He smiled wickedly and kissed her temple. Molly recoiled from his touch, turning her head away.

Grinning, Moriarty straightened and checked his watch. He pulled out a piece of cloth and tied it tightly around Molly's head, effectively gagging her.

"Your white knight has 45 minutes. I do hope for your sake that he shows up."

xxxxx

Crowds of people were bustling to and fro along the bank Thames, seas of couples in shades of pink and red and white taking advantage of the romantic sunset on the day of love.

Sherlock and John hustled to the base of the ferris wheel, shuffling through the crowd in their rush. As they ran, John phoned Lestrade to meet them with back up at the Eye, which, due to the scheduled pyrotechnics, had been closed to the public for the day.

"Shame," said a man passing by. "It would have been romantic to see the city lights with you, Ben."

Sherlock scanned the nearby area. There were no buildings that would be in direct line of danger should the fireworks go off. The Eye was closed, and he highly doubted that Moriarty and Molly were in one of the compartments. That left the control room at the base. It was as a windowless rectangular room, much longer than it was wide. He hopped the fence – John, following suit – and headed straight towards the structure.

A policeman barred his way, a palm on Sherlock's chest to stop him. "Excuse me, sir, the Eye is off limits tonight."

_Officer Nicholson. Rookie. First year on the job. History of porn addiction. Lives with his long-term girlfriend._

Sherlock flashed Lestrade's badge.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. Officer, you'll do best to let us through."

The officer faltered and stepped aside. "Yes, of course, Detective Inspector. My apologies."

Predictably, the door on the control room was locked. Sherlock threw his weight against it, but it wouldn't budge.

"Move over," John ordered. He aimed his gun at the lock and fired twice. The door swung open on its hinges lamely.

"Molly!" Sherlock called.

The sound of muffled shouting replied his call. John ran his hand over the walls, searching for a light switch. As the lights flickered on, Molly's form was illuminated. She was in the middle of the room, dressed simply in a yellow cotton dress too thin for winter and open-toed sandals that sparsely covered her feet. The gag prevented her from speaking, but she forcefully nodded her head down to her lap, where a mobile phone lay.

Sherlock ran to her, kneeling at her feet to untie the gag around her mouth. John quickly set to untying the rope that held her to the chair as Sherlock rubbed his palms up and down her bare arms. She was freezing cold. He shrugged off his coat and draped it over her shoulders.

He took Molly's face in his hands, eyes skimming over her for any signs of outward distress. Finding none, he closed the space between them with a quick, gentle kiss on her lips (which surprised everyone in the room, himself most of all). Drawing back slightly, he scanned her face for her reaction.

"Are you alright? Did he hurt you?"

Gripping his wrists, Molly grinned. "I'm fine."

"Ah, the lovers are reunited at last!" A tinny voice came from the phone in Molly's lap. "Good, good, with 20 minutes to spare as well, good job Sherlock."

"Where are you? You said we would meet."

Sirens sounded outside, and the familiar squabble of the police came closer and closer.

"Oh, don't worry Sherlock, we _will_ meet again soon," Moriarty reassured him. "I just wanted to play with you and lovely Molly for a while. Happy Valentine's day! Ta ta!"

xxx

They sat on the ledge of the ambulance. An EMT had draped a shock blanket on Molly's shoulders, over Sherlock's coat which she was still wearing. They had each been given a Styrofoam cup of lukewarm tea. Lestrade and Donovan had arrived with back up fifteen minutes ago and were currently neutralizing the fireworks, searching the premises for any other clue that Moriarty may have left behind. John was leaning against the railing, looking over the Thames. Most likely he was on the phone with Mary, who, if it hadn't been for her very pregnant belly, would have probably run around London with them.

Molly was curiously quiet, bringing the cup to her lips every so often – _every 45 seconds, _Sherlock noted – as she swung her legs absentmindedly over the edge. They sat side by side, in a bubble of silence, surrounded by noise and chaos.

"What did he mean, that he wanted to play with you?" Sherlock said, finally.

Molly tilted her head to the side, thinking.

"I don't know," she said slowly. "The last thing I remember before waking up in that room was making coffee this morning before work."

Then she blushed, realizing something.

"Were you going to wear that to work?" Sherlock asked, mentioning the thin shift.

Molly shook her head vehemently. He had hit the nail on the head.

Sherlock cursed. "That bastard."

A moment's pause filtered in between them, neither really knowing what to say to the other. Molly turned to face him, a question on her lips. _It's now or never, Hooper_, she thought to herself.

"Because I am quite taken with you, Molly. And I don't know what I'd do if something happened to you on my account."

She faltered, closing her mouth. "Sorry?"

"You were going to ask me why I kissed you. That is why."

Molly stared into her now empty cup. "That, um, wasn't what I was going to ask you, but okay."

The tips of Sherlock's ears tinged the faintest of pink. "Oh."

She set her cup down and covered his hands with her own. Sherlock glanced down at their intertwined fingers before meeting her eyes, his eyebrows nearly colliding with his hairline.

"I was going to ask," she started with a small smile. "If you'd like to have dinner with me? Maybe afterwards we could head back to Bart's to dissect the brain of a recently deceased patient who had Creutzfeldt–Jakob disease?"

In that moment, as she looked up at him shyly through her lashes, and with the police lights illuminating her face, Sherlock was unable to think of a more beautiful sight. He skimmed his thumb over hers and leaned in closer. Molly unconsciously tilted her head up in response, her mouth slightly parting.

Stopping an inch short of his destination, Sherlock looked down into Molly's half closed eyes. He breathed against her lips, "If we can call it a date, then yes."

The corners of her mouth perked up in a smile as his lips finally pressed against them. She curled her arms around his neck to tug him closer, while his own hands found purchase on the slight curve of her waist.

Somehow, in between kisses, she managed to say, "It's a date."

xxx

Lestrade came around the corner, heading towards John, when he spotted Sherlock and Molly in their secret exchange. Finally! Leaning back against the railing, with their arms crossed over their chest, the two men grinned. He was going to tease them, about how it was probably against the law to lock lips in an ambulance, but John held him back with a chuckle.

"Greg, let it go. This was a long time coming."

Admittedly, he had to agree.

xxx

From across the Thames, a slight, dark haired man in an expensive suit leaned over the railings, holding a tablet in his hands. The live video feed relayed the image of a curly haired detective and a brunette doctor as they kissed each other playfully, stopping when a medic told them to. The man's mouth curled into a manic smile, as he clicked the off button and slipped the tablet into his suit pocket. He straightened, dusting the front of his suit, as he strolled inwards, to the city. Smoothing a hand over his short cropped hair, Moriarty giggled to himself.

Playing with Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper will be a lot of fun indeed.

* * *

**AN:** This was for Milkforthesouffles on tumblr, as a part of Broomclosetkink's Sherlolly Valentine's Fic-a-thon. I know your prompt was a simple 'jealous Sherlock,' and honestly, it started out that way, I promise. I don't know how it ended up like this. It just snowballed into this behemoth. I hope you enjoyed it!

For all my other readers, I also hope you enjoyed it! Read and review please? Thank you friends. :)

Much love,

-Skye


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